Alfred x Matthew
by Flagfish
Summary: The aftermath of a hockey match between twin brothers Canada and America hardly makes for amicable resolution; the game is back on, and the boys play dirty. Rated M because I can't write about these two without becoming very perverse.
1. Chapter 1

"Don't touch it,"

Arthur said, lightly batting Alfred's hand from his forehead. Face screwed with mild dissatisfaction, he carefully slid the other boy's hair from the damp skin of his forehead, still hot from the game before, and reached with his other hand to dab at the large, red scrape with alcohol-soaked gauze.

Alfred hissed.

Two feet away there sat Matthew, yellow hair disheveled and helmet under one arm, other hand pressing ice to a bruise on his chin.

"You boys play too rough," Arthur sighed, but there was no use pointing it out; even as the twins sat there nursing their wounds, there clearly was no regret; there clearly was satisfaction there in their eyes.

"Yeah, I'll see _you_ tomorrow on the ice," Matthew hissed under his breath, the hand still on his helmet partly pointing, and, gazing from in-between Arthur's fingers, Alfred nodded, chin tilting defiantly as he muttered back, "buddy, it's _on_—"

"Hey, hey…!"

Arthur said, "That's enough taunting for one night, Alfred, I want you to_ sit still—_"

Just barely attentive to the older boy's words, Alfred continued to glare at his brother, Matthew quietly glaring back. Arthur shook his head, the slender digits of his hand attentively at work as he peeled the wax paper away from a band aid before placing it on Alfred's forehead, combing stray wisps of hair aside; already Alfred's fingers were reaching to inspect the bandage, and again Arthur had slapped them away, turning his attention to Matthew now and proceeding to take the ice pack away from his chin.

"Let me see."

It was around that time Francis walked into the locker room, still wearing his coat, car keys dangling out from one hand. His gaze altered from Alfred to Matthew and back, and then he raised the hand that was carrying a plastic bag, with a large paper bag inside it.

"I got takeout…?"

He said, as though it were a question and not an announcement, as though he weren't sure, considering the circumstances, if such a thing were really fine. _I come in peace_, it seemed to imply.

Matthew's eyes rose toward Francis, chin tilting up so that Arthur could better inspect the wound, and then Francis came closer, as with mild interest to assess the severity of the damage.

"France, can you hand me that ethanol there, on that bench—"

Arthur asked, turning partway around to get it, himself, and Francis took a moment to scan the area to see what it was he was asking for,

"The what?" he asked, and then "this?"

Alfred was dabbing at his band aid, lips pressed together, he still could taste the blood on them from the inside—it was a good game. Matthew was winning, but then Alfred caught up—they'd been at a tie when they both collided so hard that they had to stop playing.

Needless to say, this meant it wasn't over. Needless to say, soon as Arthur got out of the way, they'd be back out on the ice, showing each other what's what. Alfred was only momentarily distracted by the prospect of dinner, hardly able to contain his impatience as Arthur proceeded to clean Matthew's wounds.

_Ten minutes_, Matthew mouthed, and, cracking his neck, Alfred already was pointing one hand, and Arthur saw, turning his head toward Alfred and then back at Matt, and then he called out, "Hey…! No one's going out there again and that's _that_…!"

Francis watched helplessly as the brothers clearly ignored Arthur, glaring bloody murder from across the first aid kit on the bench, Matthew mouthing profanities and Alfred already up on his feet in order to put him in his place—

Matthew slammed his helmet down on the bench, also rising to his feet, and soon they were pushing each other, the silent curses turning to audible words, until there ensued the next fight—

Matthew grasped at Alfred's jersey with proficient ease and pulled it over his head, and what happened after that, neither Arthur nor Francis could really intervene, the both of them cursing, Francis dropping his bag to the floor and Arthur rising irritably from the bench, the both of them uselessly trying to pull the twins apart, but it was too late by then—

—it ended with Alfred having Matthew beneath him on the floor, belly down and one arm locked behind his back, calling out for him to say how much _Canada sucks_, and Matthew, even as he squirmed beneath him in pain, clenched his teeth and shouted back, "_Fuck you, Alfred—"_

"Leave it," Francis sighed, standing with both hands at his hips and gazing irritably at Arthur across the way, "leave it, just let them be, they're both adults now," and he had to talk loud enough to be heard over Alfred and Matthew's curses and shouts, and finally Arthur resigned, annoyed that his various efforts at sorting things out had all been in vain.

"Yeah," he said at last, gazing unhappily at the brawl that proceeded on the floor, "sod it, let's go eat supper."

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

It was a snowy night in Vancouver.

Out in the parking lot at the back of the rink, Francis and Arthur meandered toward Francis' parked car, the electronic chirp of his keychain echoing throughout the open expanse, humid clouds of condensation dissipating white into the air with their breath, Arthur zipping the collar of his coat as he climbed into the car.

Francis climbed in at the driver's side, then turned partly around to put the plastic bag with dinner in the back seat, the bundle pleasantly warm in his gloved hand; there soon came the low sound of doors closing, iridescent flash of headlights, brake lights going off—

Alfred and Matthew wouldn't go home for some time. The rink almost entirely devoid of people, there came only the hard sounds of knocking collisions and scrapes, the occasional shouts resonating all throughout the rink, both brothers out of breath—

When you came in already pissed off, you were just looking for a fight. With no linesmen around, you could duke it out all evening. With linesmen around, they'd still let you duke it out, until one dude was down on the ice, or the other dude was having too much of an advantage— but Matthew and Alfred were pretty-well matched.

They went at each other too many times to count. They spent nearly as much time beating each other up as they did actually playing, and after you'd been at it that long, you'd be riled up enough to kick the other guy's ass even more, practically looking for any conceivable chance to have a go—

Alfred had the puck for a while when Matt came at him hard, elbowing him deep in the side and sending him down to his knees on the ice, the puck flying off while Matt twisted partway and nearly fell as he hit the wall of the rink—

—that was bad. That was low. Soon as Alfred was up, he went straight at Matthew, hardly waiting for him to rise to his feet before pushing him back, and Matthew's hands were on Alfred, as well, and soon they were punching each other in the belly, until they were fighting to hold each other down on the ice for what may have been the fifth time in that just that game alone.

They finally tired one another out two hours after the fact, Alfred halfheartedly hitting Matthew as the two lay in an exhausted tangle on the ice, Matthew's arms locked around his brother's waist, damp bundles of hair messily hanging down at the front of his helmet and onto his face, trembling slightly with each expiration of breath.

"Get the ff…_get the fuck off me…_" he breathed, and there came no response, Alfred not really hitting with interest anymore but still not letting go. Matthew's skin was damp through his shirt, they were both very hot, Alfred's eyes closed and lips dry and agape as he drew in his breath. It was a mutual, unspoken understanding to call it a night, because neither would admit aloud that this thing was done.

When finally Alfred stopped punching Matt, he tiredly reached to pull his helmet off, still holding his brother down with his other hand. His cheeks were red with exertion, his hair was a mess, Matthew proceeded to pry his hands away from Alfred as to remove his helmet, too, when, snickering, Alfred seized the opportunity to tackle him, slamming him down on his back.

Matthew cringed, teeth clenching as he hissed profanities in French, and Alfred ignored him that time, still breathing hard as he grinned with satisfaction, "_You let down your guard_," he laughed, leaning forth to kiss him, hands still holding tight to Matt's wrists on either side of his face.

"_Son of a bitch_," Matthew breathed, eyes closed and chest still heaving, his shoulders still hurt where Alfred had slammed him down, his muscles still tensed as he tried to get up while he kissed Alfred back. His knee rose dangerously close to Alfred's pelvis from below, just barely brushing close up, and, lips still moving wet against his, he murmured,

"I'll do it," voice coming breathy and hoarse, "I'll do it, Al, let go of my wrists—"

Alfred leaned farther in, knee coming hard between Matthew's legs, but not up all the way—

"Yeah?" he murmured as he kissed Matt again, "_Yeah, I'll do it, too—"_

But after that, he moved his knee up very slowly, as if to make a blatant point that Matthew was hard, and he snickered with quiet contentment, insulting without ever saying a word; Matt bit his lip, half smiling, part nodding, _very funny_, he may well have said—then he suddenly grabbed tightly at Alfred's arms, flipping him hard on his back with his face screwed in effort.

"_Ohhh….!_" Matthew cried, lips stretched widely in a smile as he gazed down in triumph, but he had to struggle after that to keep Alfred from getting back up.

"Ah…man, fuck you…" Alfred laughed, and he made a genuine effort to get loose, failing at first but then quickly getting out of Matthew's grasp—

He gripped his brother hard around the waist, pulling him in and then rapidly seizing his mouth, Matt's helmet still on as he struggled halfheartedly to get it off all the while;

"_I'm missing dinner cause of you_,"

Alfred said, hands going under the hem of Matthew's jersey, "cause you suck at hockey so bad—"

"Don't make me kick your ass again, Al,"

There came the reply, Matthew's large hands hard at the sides of Alfred's face, his cheeks felt stubbly and warm, his lips outright hot and a little bit wet; on his forehead was still the bandage Arthur had put on some hours before—

Beneath Matthew's jersey, Alfred's hands ran across the muscles of his abdomen, raking over the costal margin and up along his chest, "You're such a little pussy, Matt, this gets you off?"

"Oh, you're such an asshole—"

There came the reply, because _it really did feel good_, and maybe Alfred was taunting him only because he wanted Matt to get him back—

"Here?" Matthew said, voice hoarse and dry as he reached directly for the front of Al's trousers, and he snickered in triumph, "I knew it, you fag—"

"You're the fag," Alfred laughed, entirely unashamed of being hard, and he pressed up deliberately into Matt's hand, leaning in again to kiss him.

* * *

><p>"Just leave it, I'll do the dishes,"<p>

There came Francis' halfhearted tone, he collected the plates from the dining room table where he and Arthur had finished dinner shortly before, "I'm loading the dishwasher up anyway—"

"Those idiots, it's already twenty minutes past ten, they still out at the rink?"

The sounds of dishware clinking emanated from the kitchen nearby, where Francis was rinsing the dishes and silverware off,

"Let it go, Arthur, we're the same way with football—"

Arthur leaned back in his chair, remote control in hand. He had a vacation home in British Columbia, where he stayed very rarely, but it was nice when there were meetings or summits nearby.

"Football, that's different,"

He said, pointing the remote toward the television and turning it on, "You can't not…_everyone plays football_."

He turned his head partway around, "You think we should call them? They're probably having a fight…"

"Let them fight,"

Francis called from the kitchen, "I already told you, those two are grown up—"

"But there's no linesmen out now, you saw how mad they get—"

* * *

><p>Out on the ice, Alfred had Matt on his back, long legs entangled and trousers down somewhere around both their calves, ice skates still on, the hot expiration of breath ghosting humid and low, violent, graceless, there came the obnoxious sound of a phone going off—<p>

"F…fuck—"

Matthew breathed, hair still swaying, arm still tight around Alfred's back, and he gazed aside where, a few feet away there lay his cel phone, and, hair swinging damp, Alfred growled back, "You're not seriously gonna answer—"

"I just wanna see who it is—"

"It's probably England, just call him back later, who cares—"

_Dude always calls at the most inopportune times—_

* * *

><p>"There's no pickup,"<p>

Arthur said, voice ringing with dissatisfaction as he hit the _end_ button on his phone, and Francis was drying his hands on a kitchen towel as he stepped out into the family room,

"They're probably still out in the rink."

"Or they've beat each other up so bad that—"

"England," Francis sighed, "they do this _all the time_. Just let it go and let's have some time to ourselves."

_To be continued…_


End file.
